Twenty Little Sticks
by pennylayne
Summary: Jack gets fed up with New York and all it holds and goes off in search of a new home, only to realize just how at home he was.


Jack walked out of the convenience store, packing his menthol lights hard against the heel of his hand as he looked up at the clear Santa Fe sky. He shook his head at the cloudless stretch of blue and looked back down at the box in his hand, and half a smile could almost be detected on his face if one were to look closely.

There was so much promise in a new pack of cigarettes. Every time Jack opened one, he thought about all the things he could be doing as he smoked each of the twenty little sticks inside. He could be lighting one at a show as he discovered a new local band... perhaps pulling one out as he got into a philosophical discussion on Martin Heidegger (that is, if he actually knew who Martin Heidegger was) outside of a coffee shop... smoking one as he curled comfortably into the arms of some handsome new boy with whom he'd just spent a long, romantic night of sex and drinks and conversation.

The reality, of course, was that they would all, minus the three it would take him to walk home, would probably be smoked as he laid on his futon in the dark, watching _Die Hard_ (again) with one hand tucked into the waistband of his pants. But Jack preferred to pretend that wasn't true. Jack liked to dream.

He pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, exhaling the smoke gratefully. The walk home was long and it wasn't something he was particularly looking forward to, but at least it was something for him to do other than going to and from work and spending more quality time with Bruce Willis than should be humanly possible.

Jack had thought life in Santa Fe would be great. Sun, sky, fresh, clean air, freedom... everything there wasn't in New York. But what he'd found was unbearable heat in the summer, much like in New York, annoying tourists, much like in New York, and a roommate he could barely stand, much like in New York. He thought he'd found someplace new, someplace he could be happy. All he'd found was a repeat of his old life.

Minus the one thing he'd left behind in Manhattan.

There was a burning sensation in his fingers and Jack realized he'd smoked the cigarette all the way down to the filter and hadn't even noticed. Tossing the butt onto the sidewalk, he sighed. This was why he didn't allow himself to think when he smoked. It made him feel like he'd wasted an entire cigarette.

Frustrated, he pulled another one out of the pack and lit it, shoving the box roughly into the back pocket of his jeans. It wasn't fair that thoughts of New York and what all he'd left back there still haunted him. He'd been gone for six months already. New York had probably forgotten all about Jack Kelly by now – so why couldn't he forget about New York?

He took a long drag off his cigarette, closing his eyes for a moment as he did so. There was something comforting about the way the smoke filled his lungs, the way he could almost feel it swirling around in there before he exhales and opened his eyes to the little cloud in front of his face.

_"You know, those things are going to kill you someday,"_ he could hear a familiar, know-it-all little voice squeaking in his head. _"You're going to get cancer. They're so bad for you. Plus, I heard that those menthol things crystallize your lungs. And if you don't get cancer, I'll get it from all the secondhand smoke. And then I'll die, and where will you be?"_

That argument had actually made him quit smoking for a whole three months once, because then, his answer had been, _"If you die, then I'll die." _ But now, his answer was, _"Alone, just like now,"_ and so he took another drag. There was no one in Santa Fe to bitch at him about his habits. Well, except for his roommate, who complained when he watched _Die Hard _for the six-hundredth time, left his sweatshirt on the floor, left dirty dishes on the counter, didn't hang his towels up, left the windows open all night, called his girlfriend a controlling whore-slut from hell, breathed too loudly, et cetera, et cetera... but no one really cared about his roommate, anyway. He was kind of a dick. In fact, everyone in Santa Fe was kind of a dick.

_"Well, if you hate it so much, why do you stay? You could go back to New York, it's not so bad there. I'm there."_

"God damn it, Dave," Jack muttered as he tossed the butt into the gutter. "You and your fucking logic, get out of my head."

This earned him a shocked look from an elderly woman who was passing by him. She eyed him carefully, the kind of look you give someone when you're really, truly scared of them and don't want to show it, and switching her purse to her other hand and clutching it closely to her side, she picked up her pace. Jack merely rolled his eyes and turned up the steps to his apartment building.

Inside the apartment, it was dark and cool and empty of anyone but himself, which was just the way he liked it. No bitchy roommate and no bitchy roommate's bitchy girlfriend. Just sparse living-room furnishings consisting of the futon, a well-worn bean-bag chair, and Jack's dresser with the television set up on top of it, accompanied by a pile of blankets and pillows, an ashtray, and a box of White Cheddar Cheez-Its that had been there for God knows how long.

Jack sighed and kicked his shoes off, locking the door behind him. With no one there to bother him, it was time to pop in _Die Hard_ and spend the rest of the afternoon with Mr. Willis. There was something about terrorists getting their asses handed to them on a platter that always made him feel better.

He put the DVD into the player and flopped onto the futon, remote in hand. Cursing, he lifted his hips up and pulled his pack out of his back pocket and inspected it; slightly squashed, but really, no other damage. Thank God.

Tucking his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles, Jack relaxed and prepared to zone out with the movie. After losing count of the swear words that came out of Bruce's mouth, he pulled out another cigarette and lit it. Just as he was putting the lighter back in his pocket, his cell phone vibrated.

_1 New Text Message_, the screen said. He didn't need to read it, he knew who it was from and what it said; but he pressed "Read" anyway. _Come home jack, i miss you_, it said. Jack sighed and shook his head. He'd been getting the same text message at least three times a week for the past six months.

For the first time since the moment he had gotten on that plane, Jack hit "Reply." _I am home_, he punched in, and pressed "Send." He could only imagine David's face on the receiving end, the little glimmer of excitement as he thought for a moment that Jack was back in New York, then the disappointment and heartbreak when he realized that Jack meant that he was home in Santa Fe. He could actually see the way those blue eyes would cloud over, the way they always did when he was sad, and the way his lower lip would stick out a little bit, even when no one was looking. God, the things that face could make Jack do...

Jack sighed and took another pull on his cigarette. He didn't need to think about him anymore. He'd done nothing but think about him since the moment he walked through the gates at the airport.

The phone vibrated in his hand again. _You cant be home if im not there_, the message read this time. He rolled his eyes and set the phone down on his chest, taking one last drag and stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. A few minutes passed by with nothing but Bruce Willis screaming and cursing, but then the phone vibrated again. Picking it up, he read the text. _Jack??? you there?_

"No," he mumbled to the phone, setting it back down. He just couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't deal with his controlling, guilt-tripping attitude or the way David would read him the riot act if he so much as _talked_ to another guy, regardless of if he was gay or not. He couldn't handle any more of the computing and the nit-picking and bitching over every little habit he had, especially the whole smoking thing. As much as Jack had loved him, and still loved him, there was only so much a guy could take before he snapped under the pressure.

And somehow, he'd snapped all the way to Santa-fucking-Fe.

Another message came through. _Come on jack_.

Jack shoved the phone between the couch cushions as it started to ring; he was calling now. Jack never should have written him back... he hadn't received an actual call from David in a couple of weeks now and he was starting to get used to the silence. He bit his lip and tried to focus on the television screen.

It wasn't long before the land line was ringing. Unsure of where the handset was, Jack just let it ring until the answering machine picked up.

"_Hey, you've reached Mike and Jack,_" the machine said in his roommate's squeaky little voice. "_We can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and we'll call you back._" _Beep_.

"Jack," a familiar voice came pouring out of the speaker, "it's... it's me. I know you're probably wondering how I got your number... um, it was in Racetrack's address book, and, well, he'd probably kill me if he found out I went through it but I was bored and I found your number. Anyway, baby, please, pick up. I know you're there. You're probably sitting on the couch, smoking and watching _Die Hard_ and listening to this."

"I'm not smoking," Jack muttered in response, though he knew he couldn't be heard.

"Come on, Jack." He was silent for a moment. "Okay, fine. Look, I get the point, okay? You've made it loud and clear. But I've changed. I promise I've changed. Just come home. I miss you. We all miss you. You can't be happy in New Mexico. You're a New Yorker and you belong here with me. Come home, Jack." He sighed into the phone. "Just... give me a call when you're ready, Jack. I love you." _Click_.

Jack rubbed his hands over his face with a sniff, trying to pass off the stinging in his eyes as smoke lingering in the air. There was no one there to see it, but still, Jack Kelly did _not_ cry. It just didn't happen.

He missed David. He really _missed _him. He never thought about the way it felt to sleep alone before he had to do it. He missed having a warm body to curl up next to, rather than a cold standard-sized futon stained with beer and canned chili-cheese dip and something unidentifiable which had shown up one day and started out white and was now turning blue with flecks of brown. He missed having someone to wake him up in the morning with eggs and toast instead of, "Move your feet, fucker, I want to watch the news."

Really, maybe it hadn't been so bad. Even with all the nagging and complaining, there was love and tenderness, and David's ability to make Jack feel instantly better with that pouty little face he made and a kiss. And then there was the sex. The two of them had some really good sex. Like, worthy-of-an-X-rated-video sex.

Jack found himself lighting a cigarette as he thought about it. He tucked one hand behind his head again, smiling a little to himself. It was amazing, the way certain things about David could send him into a raging, murderous frenzy, but then other things about him could send him into... well, a _different_ kind of frenzy. His eyes closed and his hand started creeping toward his fly when the front door swung open loudly.

Rolling his eyes, he looked up at the door to see Rina, his roommate's girlfriend, standing there. "Oh, _you're_ here," she deadpanned, shutting the door. "I was hoping you'd be at work or something."

"Haven't seen you for a couple of days, Rina, I was hoping you'd been run over by a bus or something."

"Ha, ha," Rina said as she rolled her eyes at him. "Look, is Mike around?"

"Nope," Jack replied. "I got home and he wasn't here. I don't know where he is or when he'll be back so... bye."

"Maybe he's at work."

"Perhaps you should head over there and check."

"Do you think he'd mind if I just hung around here until he got home?"

"I don't know about Mike, but I sure as hell would."

"What are you watching?"

_Damn_,_ she's not leaving_, Jack thought with a sigh. "_Die Hard_," he said, as he stretched out so he covered the futon from arm to arm, leaving no room for Rina to sit down. It was an immature move, yes, but Jack would rather have acted like a five-year-old than sit next to her.

"Again? Don't you ever watch anything else?" She plopped down into the bean-bag chair, letting out an exaggerated cough. "I can't believe that Mike would let you smoke in here. It makes the whole place smell like an old ashtray. Plus, cigarettes are absolutely _terrible_ for you... you're going to die, Jack. You're going to get cancer and _die_."

"At least then I'll be rid of you," he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

"And if you don't die of lung cancer, then the secondhand smoke will kill both Mike and me."

"Ooh, even better."

"And besides, you're constantly getting ash all over the futon and putting burn-holes in it."

"I paid for the damned thing, so what does it matter to you?"

"Would you just take the hint and put out the fucking cigarette?"

Jack's response was to take a long drag and blow smoke slowly into Rina's face. She went into a coughing fit and when the smoke cleared, she just sat and glared at him. "I'm going to tell Mike."

"Ah, yes. The wrath of the almighty Mike. I'm shaking in my boots." Jack rolled his eyes and took another drag, a smirk playing across his face.

"You should be. The way you treat me isn't going to fly with him. He's going to kick you out."

"Not with what I'm paying him for rent, he's not."

"He hates you anyway. He told me. He says you're a worthless fucking faggot."

Jack held his cigarette against his lips for a moment in silence. Then, he turned his head and stared Rina straight in the eye. "You know what? I am. I'm a fucking faggot." And he laughed.

Rina just eyed him in the same way the old woman on the street had, and got up and left. Jack laid there for a few more minutes, then got up and packed his bags.

--

Jack walked out of the convenience store, packing the cigarettes against his hand. It was an action he'd repeated so many times, but it felt different today. Perhaps it was because he was back in New York, back on streets that were filled with muggers and homeless people and obnoxious street vendors rather than sweet little old couples and wannabe cowboys.

He looked up at the buildings, smiling, and soon found himself standing in front of a familiar pair of doors. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and walked through.

It was a fifth-floor walk-up, and after smoking so much for the last few months, it was more than a little bit difficult. Jack found himself slightly on the winded side when he reached the landing, so he stood for a moment to catch his breath. He headed down the hallway to number fifty-seven, his heart pounding in his chest – whether it was because of the exertion, the nerves, or some combination of the two, he wasn't sure. But it was roaring in his ears by the time he reached the door.

He lifted his hand to knock, noticing the pack of cigarettes clutched in it. Twenty little sticks that used to give him so much comfort. Twenty little sticks he would've given his life for, that he wouldn't have given up for any fortune when he was in Santa Fe.

But now, he had a reason to give them up.

He threw the pack down the hallway as far as he could, then knocked. The door opened a few seconds later, and David stood there, looking stunned. "Jack? What are you doing here?"

Jack smiled and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm home."


End file.
